


Of Bourbon and Mistletoe

by DarylDixonGrimes



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluffy, Holiday, M/M, Rickyl, darick - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 14:36:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5460020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarylDixonGrimes/pseuds/DarylDixonGrimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's their first Christmas since the world went to shit. The stockings are hung by the chimney with care, and Daryl is completely pissed on bourbon and spiked apple cider. And completely in love with Rick Grimes, who just so happens to be perched under the mistletoe. Dun dun dun. </p><p>A festive little Christmas something to get my brain working because it's been stuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Bourbon and Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snazzelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snazzelle/gifts).



Daryl can't remember the last time he was this drunk. The CDC. The moonshine in the woods with the closest thing he ever had to a little sister. Sometime before the world changed, in a shitty motel with weekly rates and more cockroaches than a _Fear Factor_ episode.

His insides feel warm, like they're suspended in some sort of viscous liquid. A mix between water and tar. Heavy and light. Floating and sinking. And he knows if he stops leaning on the wall and tries to take a step that he'll have to concentrate to stay upright, but it doesn't matter. Not tonight.

He takes another sip and lets his eyes slide over to the mantle above the fireplace where they've strung up twinkling white lights that blur like firefly tails on a summer evening.

“Merry Christmas,” Maggie says somewhere close. A smack of lips that calls Daryl's attention. He turns his head, watches her kiss Glenn while she rocks a little boy on her hip. Hershel Aaron Rhee coos, his little baby eyes fighting sleep with all the excitement of Christmas Eve. Daryl hiccups.

“C'mon Dad, just one.”

Daryl turns his head again, letting gravity and the first law of motion do most of the work. Next to the Christmas tree, Carl's showing his age for once, begging to open one of his gifts early. Daryl wonders if Rick will cave, and if he does, which gift Carl will end up with that night. He and Aaron had risked a lot to get every single present under the tree, and the tree itself for that matter—found boxed up in the attic of a woman whose house still smelled strongly of tuna and ammonia. There was enough old cat hair hanging around to have Aaron sneezing for about an hour after they dragged all of the Christmas decorations out of the house.

Rick caves after one more “please,” and Carl opens a video game before dashing upstairs to play it.

“It looks good, all things considered,” Aaron says, walking up and taking a spot next to him on the wall. And he's right. It's homey and cheery and for one night, even if they aren't _sure_ sure that it's really Christmas, they can forget the world outside, forget that tomorrow night they have to go back to worrying about survival, to looking over their shoulders and praying they make it through 'til the end. If there ever is an end.

“Thanks for helpin,” Daryl says. And he doesn't know why. It's not like Aaron hasn't joined their family and made a place for himself and Eric in it. Christmas had been at least half his idea, the other half being Glenn and Maggie's, who insisted that Hershel (and Judith) both had a right to their first Christmases.

“Ditto,” he says, reaching over to give Daryl's shoulder a squeeze. “By the way, if there's an interested party present, Rick happens to be standing under the mistletoe.”

Daryl focuses on Aaron, blinking back bleariness a couple times. His fellow recruiter is the only one who knows, really knows. Carol suspects and hints, but the second time he'd nearly died with Aaron, the two of them on a rotten tree branch, close enough to feel decomposing fingers brush their shoes while the wood steadily cracked beneath them… He'd told him then. Couldn't go to the grave without telling someone.

He's in love with Rick Grimes. The kind of love that makes you stay awake at night dreaming about what could be. The kind that makes your heart ache when you think about him kissing someone else, even if you know they're only the representation of a long-dead ideal, even if they're dead and gone themselves. The kind that makes you go out of your way to find the perfect Christmas gift even in a world where options are limited and the longer you search, the more you risk.

“Don't think he realizes it's up there,” Aaron says. “He hasn't moved or looked up.”

Daryl glances over as slyly as he can. Sure enough, Rick's sipping hard cider right underneath a clump of mistletoe. Daryl had shot the thing out of a tree with a well-aimed arrow the day before. And there it hangs, a ball of possibility right over Rick's curls.

“Nuh uh,” Daryl says. “I can't just...”

“Can't what?” Aaron asks. “Can't go over and ask Rick if he's having a nice Christmas Eve? Can't put your excellent observation skills to good use and notice where you both happen to be standing?”

“I...”

“The worst he can do is move, Daryl.”

Easy for you to say. You've got yours. You _know_ how he feels. 

“Thing is, if he moves, I'll know.”

“Exactly.”

“But what if…” Daryl swallows down a burp that tastes like bourbon. “What if what I find out ain't what I wanna know?”

“Would you rather know, good or bad, or would you rather be stuck out on another limb with me wishing he at least knew he had someone who cared about him like you do? That's the question you really need to be asking.”

Daryl chews on his bottom lip, taking a second to let his alcohol-soaked brain process Aaron's words.

Fuck.

“And do you really want to risk missing out on what will happen if he doesn't move?” Aaron asks, and damn't, Daryl is too drunk for this shit.

The hunter steals another glance at Rick, still sipping his drink and watching the festivities. He's not visibly smiling, but Daryl can see the light of a grin sparkling in his eyes. Rick's happy. What if he fucks that up?

The hunter takes another drink, and Aaron reaches over, puts two fingers on the bottom of his cup, and tips the rest into his mouth.

“You can do this,” he says, clapping Daryl on the shoulder. And then he gives him a little nudge. Daryl takes an unsteady step, stumbles once, prays Rick doesn't notice, and keeps walking. He concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other. Left, right, left, right, until he very nearly trips over one of Rick's leather boots.

“You that drunk?” Rick asks with a sideways smile that makes Daryl's stomach flutter like hummingbird wings.

“I…” Daryl lifts up his empty cup, peering into the depths. “Mhm.”

“Thank you for this,” Rick says, gesturing to the room. “Think we all forgot what this feels like. Joy. Hope. Peace.”

“Think of that yourself?” Daryl asks, gesturing to a little Christmas placard on display next to them. The words “joy,” “hope,” and “peace” are written in red and green surrounded by little painted ornaments and snowmen.

Rick laughs.

“I swear I didn't do that on purpose,” he says.

“And...” Daryl falters and swallows, his tongue dry and sticking to the roof of his mouth. He breaths. In. Out. “And standing under the mistletoe? You do that on purpose?”

Rick's eyes fly upward, locking onto the clump of leaves and berries strung up with red ribbon. He stares at it, and Daryl's pretty sure two millenia pass by in the time it takes Rick to properly consider the thing.

“Hmm,” Rick says, tilting his head at the little mess of green. “How bout that.”

Another millenium passes. Stars die and are reborn. Planets form and are destroyed. Daryl dies and lives and dies again a thousand times.

“Tradition's a tradition, I guess,” Rick says, looking back at him. And some tiny part of Daryl swears he recognizes the heat in Rick's eyes, but he's too in love to let himself hope. To set himself up for that kind of pain.

“Tradition's…” Oh. Oh god. Oh god yes. Oh god fuck wait no wait…

“Mhm.” Rick switches his drink to the other hand and reaches up, three fingers curling around Daryl's chin. He pulls gently, leaning in at the same time.

He's close enough to Daryl's face for him to smell the apples and bourbon on his breath. A thousand times he's imagined this kiss, and he's about to feel Rick's lips brush his own. His heart beats faster, too fast, way too fucking fast.

“Oh shit.” Daryl stumbles backwards, feels the other man's fingers drag off of his face. When he looks up, Rick's frozen, hand still cupping an invisible chin, fire in his blue eyes burning out and leaving behind the ashes of regret.

Why the hell did I just...?

“Shit, Daryl,” Rick says softly. “I didn't mean to…I'm sorry.”

“No I...”

Take a step forward, Daryl. You can still fix this. There's still embers in that fire. Add some kindling and fucking blow on 'em.

“You alright?” Rick asks, tentatively taking a step forward like he's afraid he'll spook him. Not under the mistletoe anymore. Neither of them. Just there. Occupying each others' space.

“I'm sorry,” Daryl says.

“No, I am. Shouldn't have done that.” Rick holds up his cup. “Had a lot of cider tonight.”

“But...” He chews on his lip. The words are there, hanging out in his throat, stuck there in his esophagus, lumped up and refusing to go one way or the other.

But I wanted you to. But I love you.

“How about I get you another cup?” Rick asks, gently prying the empty mug from Daryl's hand. Daryl nods and follows Rick to the kitchen where he watches him ladle steaming amber liquid out of the slow cooker in the corner.  
  
Tell him. Tell him you wanted him to.

“Here,” Rick says, offering it with a weak smile. Daryl wishes it was cool so he could down the whole thing. He almost does it anyway. Instead he sets it down and reaches for the half-empty bourbon bottle on the counter before taking a big swig straight from it.

“Do you…” Daryl falters. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Do I what?” Rick asks.

“Want to…” Fucking fuck shit.

“Daryl, you're going to have to finish a sentence here.”

“Try again?” Another swig of bourbon and it'll be a wonder if he doesn't end up cuddling the toilet all night.

“Try kissing you again?” Rick asks. He tilts his head and finds Daryl's eyes. “That what you want?”

Daryl nods.

“Do you really want me to or are you just being you?”

“Being me? The hell's that s'posed to mean?”

“You have a tendency to do stuff for me even when you don't really want to,” Rick says.

“Have a tendency to do stuff for everybody,” Daryl says. Like risk my life for a fucking Christmas tree and a teddy bear for your daughter.

“And is this one of those... tendencies?” Rick asks, stepping closer. Daryl counters by taking a step back, stopping when he butts up against the counter.

“Nuh uh.”

“No?” Rick steps closer still, pressing up against him, sharing his air. Daryl's heart speeds up again, thumping against his ribs and pounding in his ears. He swallows, wishing it didn't feel like his tongue was coated in fly paper.

“No.”

Rick's reaches up and cups his chin again, and Daryl closes his eyes, squeezing them shut like he used to on amusement park rides. He waits, his heart drumming away, each thump like the click of a roller coaster being pulled up the track. Any second now, any second you're going to tip over the top.

Rick's lips are soft when they find his, and Daryl whimpers involuntarily at the feeling of them. His heart speeds around the loop de loop. Rick pulls away.

“You don't have to do this, Daryl.”

“Wanna,” Daryl says, eyes still squeezed tight. He silently pleads for Rick to come back, and he does. This time, there's more pressure, more urgency. The other man's tongue swipes across his bottom lip and Daryl lets his mouth slack open, inviting the unfamiliar slick feeling of it sliding across his own. He loves it. Loves him. Loves how close they are, that they're sharing breath and spit and space. And no matter what gifts there are for him under the tree, he knows they won't compare to the one he's getting in the kitchen.

When Rick finally pulls away, Daryl has to catch his breath, has to physically will his body to come back down from the adrenaline rush of it all. He shivers involuntarily.

“You okay?” Rick asks, softly brushing his cheek.

“Nuh uh,” Daryl says. He pulls the bourbon bottle to his lips and gulps down another mouthful.

“You're gonna make yourself sick, Daryl.”

“Already feel sick.”

“That bad, huh?” Rick asks, gently prying the bottle out of his fingers and setting it down.

“Nah, just...” Just now we have to talk about how we feel and I don't know if we're on the same damn page. “Got you somethin. Was gonna wait til tomorrow, but...” But I need to change the subject.

Daryl reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a box wrapped in plain red tissue paper, sliding it into Rick's hand.

“You know,” Rick says, already pulling the paper off, “this isn't really fair.”

“What?”

“That you got me whatever this is, and I could only get you something I could find here in Alexandria.”

“Ain't much,” Daryl says, watching Rick pry off the box lid. 

“How the hell...” Rick pulls out a little crinkly plastic bag full of peach rings.

“Your favorite, right? Remember you sayin.”

“When did I say that?” Rick pulls open the bag, grabbing a ring with two fingers and pulling it out before sliding it between his lips. Daryl wants to kiss him again, to taste the sugar and artificial fruit flavor on his tongue. Rick mms, chewing slowly, savoring the treat.

“You asked Michonne to get you some if she ever saw any.”

“Back at the prison? You still remember that?”

“Had to. You said it was your favorite.” Daryl fidgets and contemplates grabbing the bourbon bottle again. He doesn't. “Know your favorite color is red too. Know Lori wore a red shirt on your first date because she knew that. Know your favorite food is a burger, the kind that drips so much you gotta tuck a napkin into your shirt to keep from ruinin it. Know you love Charlie Daniels but that you hum Shania Twain under your breath sometimes when you don't think anyone can hear you. Know you've held onto your gun this whole time because your dad gave it to you when you graduated police academy.”

“Anything else you know?” Rick asks. Daryl looks down at Rick's feet.

“That I...” The rest of the words stick on the way out. He takes a breath. Try again. “That I love you.”

Daryl doesn't look up. He keeps his eyes focused on Rick's boots, trying his best not to dwell on the sick feeling in his stomach that comes with knowing he's potentially about to get his heart crushed by the only person he's ever given it to. Rick kissed him, sure, but that could've been anything. Tradition, like he said. Alcohol. Convenience.

Rick's left boot moves closer to him. And then his right. Once more step for each and then they're toe-to-toe. Daryl still doesn't look him in the eye. Not until Rick puts his fingers under his chin and gently nudges his face upward.

The eye contact is painful and makes his insides squirm, but it's what Rick wants so Daryl forces himself not to look away. Blue eyes on blue. Waiting for Rick to tell him his fate.

“I never was very good at this,” Rick says. “Lori used to get so mad because I couldn't talk to her the way she wanted me to, couldn't talk to her about feelings and stuff. But you probably know that, don't you?”

“You got a point, Rick?”

“Feeling's mutual.” Rick leans forward and gives him a soft kiss, one that tastes like peaches and cinnamon and home. This. This is worth every risk Daryl had taken to help put this night together. And he'd do it again a thousand damn times for Rick Grimes. The hunter leans in and nervously claims another small kiss from Rick, just because he can. And when he pulls back, he's happy to see the hint of a smile in Rick's blue eyes. He hasn't fucked anything up. Better still, he's gotten everything he could have wanted for Christmas without tearing open a single gift.

And right on cue, as though she senses the amount of happiness happening without her, Judith starts wailing upstairs, crying out for her daddy. Another nightmare probably. Pity her brain couldn't give her a pass for Christmas. 

“Shit timing,” Rick says.

“Ain't no good timing anymore. Go. I'll still feel the same in the mornin.”

Another quick kiss, and Daryl watches him walk out of the kitchen, hears boots thump rapidly up the staircase and down the hall until they go quiet. The sound of a different set of footsteps follows the silence, and Daryl watches Aaron walk into the kitchen.

“Well?” the recruiter asks, leaning against the island bar. “Did you tell him?”

“Mhm.” Daryl nods, turning around and pouring the untouched cider back into the pot before setting his cup down next to the sink.

“And?” Aaron asks. The hunter turns around and settles back up against the counter.

“Ain't just me,” Daryl says, and Aaron smiles softly.

“Merry Christmas to you then.”

Daryl smiles back.

“Merry Christmas to me.” He pushes himself off the counter with his hands and heads for the kitchen door, clapping Aaron on the shoulder while he passes. A silent thank you for everything. And then he heads upstairs to his bedroom, pausing to listen to Rick quietly singing Judith nursery rhymes when he passes her door.

“Night, Rick,” he says softly, not even sure if it's audible to anyone but himself. “Love you.”

And he's pretty sure he hears Rick say it back as he walks away. But it doesn't matter either way, because he knows it now. They both do.


End file.
